The carriage rolled on, turning away from the Strand into narrower streets before widening again into broader avenues. London revealed itself in layers—squares lined with elegant Georgian townhouses, parks framed by wrought iron gates, and shopfronts displaying everything from fine fabrics to imported wines. Yet even here, the stink of the city followed. The manure and refuse were never far, trampled into mud and splashed onto boots by passing wheels. Phillip wrinkled his nose, forcing himself not to gag.
At last, the carriage slowed before a stately building on Bond Street. The Clarendon Hotel stood dignified with its symmetrical façade, tall sash windows, and a columned portico where liveried footmen waited to receive guests.
Sebas stepped down first, opening the door with a practiced gesture. "Welcome to the Clarendon, Young Master Phillip. Here, you will find all the comforts expected of a gentleman of your station."
Phillip descended, his boots clicking against the clean stone steps. He glanced up at the hotel's crest and the fine carriages lined along the street. In his old world, he had checked into five-star hotels across Asia and Europe. This, though lacking electricity or elevators, was the closest this century could offer to such luxury.
"This looks exquisite, let's head inside," Phillip said.
Sebas gave a polite nod and led the way through the portico. The heavy double doors swung open, and Phillip stepped into the Clarendon's lobby.
The interior was hushed, muffling the chaos of Bond Street outside. A patterned carpet stretched across polished wooden floors, its colors rich though slightly dulled from years of wear. Chandeliers hung overhead, dripping with cut-glass pendants that reflected candlelight into dozens of tiny sparks. The air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and pipe tobacco, a far cry from the foul odor of the streets.
A reception desk stood near the entrance, behind which a portly man in a waistcoat and cravat looked up with professional attentiveness. He bowed at once when he caught sight of Phillip and Sebas.
"Good afternoon, my lords. Welcome to the Clarendon Hotel. Do you have a reservation?"
Sebas stepped forward. "Lord Phillip Wellington, third son of His Grace the Duke of Wellington. He will require a suite for an extended stay."
The clerk's demeanor shifted instantly, his bow deeper, his voice a touch more reverent. "But of course. We are honored. One moment, my lord, while I prepare the register."
He produced a heavy ledger and turned it toward Phillip, offering a quill. "If you would kindly sign here, Lord Phillip."
Phillip hesitated only a moment before scrawling the name with practiced ease. The memories of the "old" Phillip guided his hand; the signature flowed naturally, even though Harrington would have signed differently in his old life.
The clerk closed the ledger and rang a small brass bell. Within moments, a pair of footmen appeared, ready to escort Phillip upstairs.
"We have prepared the Duke's favored suite for you, my lord," the clerk said smoothly. "It overlooks Bond Street and includes a private sitting room, dressing chamber, and full service at your call."
Phillip gave a polite nod. "That will do nicely."
He followed the footmen up a broad staircase carpeted in red, its banisters gleaming with polish. Sebas trailed a few paces behind, as silent and steady as ever.
The suite itself was large, with high ceilings and tall sash windows that let in the golden afternoon light. The bed was a massive four-poster draped in embroidered curtains, the sitting room furnished with cushioned chairs, a writing desk, and a fireplace where a servant was already lighting kindling. Fresh flowers in a porcelain vase gave the air a faint sweetness.
Phillip stepped inside, running a hand along the desk's polished surface. Compared to the Duke's estate, it was modest; compared to the grime outside, it was paradise.
"Not bad," Phillip murmured. Then, with a faint smile, "Not bad at all."
Sebas bowed slightly. "Shall I have a meal brought up for you, Young Master?"
"Yes," Phillip said, moving to the window. From here, he could see Bond Street alive with carriages, pedestrians, and vendors. "And bring me ink, parchment, and drafting tools. And if possibly, the map of the United Kingdom. I have work to do."
Sebas inclined his head. "At once."
As the door closed behind the butler, Phillip leaned on the sill, eyes narrowed at the bustling street.
He had the money. He had the time. Now he had a base in London.
Now time for the business plan.
Phillip pulled the leather folder from his coat and laid it carefully on the desk.
He unfastened the strap, drew out the documents, and spread them before him. The neat handwriting of Coutts's manager looked almost old-fashioned compared to the spreadsheets he had once known, yet it represented something far more tangible: capital.
He sat down, fingers drumming lightly on the wood. Five thousand pounds. My seed money. Enough to start, if I plan carefully.
Moments later, a servant entered carrying a silver tray. Plates of roasted pheasant, warm bread, and a bottle of claret were laid neatly before him. Another set down an inkwell, quills, parchment, and, to Phillip's satisfaction, a folded map of the United Kingdom.
"Perfect," Phillip muttered. "You may leave it all here."
When they withdrew, Phillip ate absentmindedly, his mind already elsewhere.
In order to start a steel manufacturing business, he needed three things above all else: raw materials, a site, and capital equipment.
Phillip leaned over the map, flattening it with his palms. His violet eyes scanned the familiar outline of the British Isles, noting deposits of iron ore in the Midlands and coalfields stretching from Wales to Yorkshire.
"First—iron ore. Second—coal. And third, proximity to markets." He tapped London with the quill, then traced a line northward. "Steel must be made where it can be shipped easily. Railways don't exist yet, so I have to rely on rivers and canals until I can make my own railways."
He dipped the quill in ink and began listing requirements.
Requirements for Steelworks (Bessemer / Oxygen Process):
Blast furnace for pig iron.
Converter (Bessemer or improved oxygen-blown).
Source of lime for removing impurities.
Abundant air supply, bellows or blowers.
Skilled metallurgists, smiths, and masons.
Land near coal, iron, and water transport.
Phillip sat back, tapping the quill against his chin. The "old" Phillip Wellington would have been content with crucibles and puddling furnaces. But he—Phillip Harrington, engineer—would not crawl through the 18th century inch by inch. He would leap ahead.
The Bessemer process doesn't exist here yet, he thought, his lips curling in a faint smile. But I know how it works. Air blown through molten pig iron, burning out the carbon and impurities, transforming brittle cast iron into steel in minutes instead of days.
Not only that, the process carried remarkable advantages. Where puddling furnaces demanded hours of backbreaking labor, Bessemer could finish the job in half an hour. Where crucibles produced steel in tiny amounts, the converter could turn out tons in a single batch—enough to supply shipyards, armories, and eventually the iron veins of railways. It was cheaper too, cutting down on skilled labor and fuel, and the quality of steel that emerged was uniform and strong.
Now where would he put his business?
The answer came down to one thing: resources. Coal and iron. Without both, steel was a fantasy. The Midlands seemed obvious—iron ore lay in shallow seams, coal mines already dotted the countryside, and rivers wound through like veins ready to carry raw materials to furnaces and finished steel to markets. Birmingham, Derby, Wolverhampton… they were no strangers to ironwork even in this century.
But he needed more than raw material. He needed transport. Railways did not yet exist, which meant canals and rivers were lifelines. His eyes narrowed on the River Severn and the growing network of canals branching from it. If he could secure land close to both ore and water transport, the logistics would be far simpler.
"Shropshire," he muttered aloud, tapping the map. The name stirred in his memory—ironworks had existed there in his old world, the Coalbrookdale furnaces that once helped ignite the Industrial Revolution. In this world, they were likely smaller, perhaps less advanced, but the geography remained the same. Rich coal, rich iron, rivers cutting through valleys. The perfect crucible.
He could already picture it: a blast furnace roaring night and day, a towering Bessemer converter tilting on trunnions, sparks cascading like fountains of fire as pig iron turned to steel. Canals bringing barges of coal, wagons hauling pig iron to be refined, and finished steel shipped downriver toward London, Portsmouth, or wherever demand beckoned.
Yes. Shropshire would be the heart of it.
Phillip dipped his quill and circled the spot on the map. "Here. This is where Britannia's steel empire begins."